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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25616911">Untold Truths &amp; Other Inconveniences</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Averia/pseuds/Averia'>Averia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Consent Issues, Gen, Love/Hate, M/M, Objectification, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:27:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,537</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25616911</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Averia/pseuds/Averia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"People?" Grayson finally asks as if testing the word on his tongue, his stare going through Slade. Then he snorts, whatever gripped him passing. "You mean such as yourself?"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Minor or Background Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>169</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Untold Truths &amp; Other Inconveniences</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Started writing this last summer with the intention of making it into an explicitly Prime-Earth story, then Tarantula invited herself into the fic, and I had no clue what to do. Finally picked it up again in April. Here it is now, whatever it is. Lol.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>I've been screwed over for a lifetime</em>, Slade thinks. He doesn't waste his thoughts admitting that it's his fault, that he has screwed the world over just as much. But he knows. Adeline has thrown him into the ocean – chains, and stones forcing him down into never-ending darkness. For as long as he can remember, anger and Adeline have gone hand in hand, but he has never directed his true unadulterated rage at her. Now, even his ever-persisting resentment is ceasing. A strange acceptance grips his heart. He has felt it before, the moment he woke in the hospital all those years ago with one eye gone and no family to greet him.</p><p>His body is shutting down. Blackness creeps into his vision. Water burns like fire down his throat. How long will it take to find him? Will they pull him out half-rotten? Or will he only survive for a few hours more? Pain haunting him into the afterlife?</p><p>Hands pull at him, all around him. Against his freezing skin, their touch feels harsh. Maybe hell is finally taking him. The hell he begged not to take him when he fought a war that had no end in sight.</p><p>"<em>Dad!</em>"</p><p>His ribs hurt. <em>Broken</em>, his mind supplies in a voice that only vaguely reflects his own. It still resembles the child that was left alone in a cold, dark shed in the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere Canada.</p><p>His head is bedded between two thighs so swiftly the motion must be practice - someone who is used to seeing spine injuries and head traumata. Kevlar scratches against his neck. His lungs constrict helplessly, then he is coughing. Two sets of hands roll him on his side. Hair is brushed out of his face, and water spills past his lips.</p><p>The puddle beneath him grows.</p><p>When he opens his eye, ears ringing, the sky is still full of gray clouds, but the rain has stopped, and his head is comfortably bedded between strong thighs once more. His sight adjusts, fine lines of Nightwing's face sharpening. The hands on his shoulders lose their pressure, unlike the ones over his chest.</p><p>For a moment, he marvels at the dripping black locks, the strands a mixture of Adeline's waves and Lilian's color. Parted dusty lips close when Nightwing swallows, and Slade -- Slade doesn't want to move, not now that his skin is slowly warming up thanks to the body heat Nightwing gives off despite or maybe because of his form fitting black suit.</p><p>He does, though, pushes up on still shaking arms before his eye can close, before he can drift off into unconsciousness.</p><p>Succumbing isn't in his nature.</p><p>Rose slams into him, rocks his body. Water burns in his throat when he refuses to cough. The hug is strong, hurts his mending bones. He clumsily pats her head, fingers interweaving with the wet locks of white hair so similar to his own and yet so different.</p><p>Grayson stays quiet behind him.</p><p>Remnants of fear and anger linger in his daughter's pale eye as she looks up at him.</p><p>Disappointment begins to tighten his skin. He taught her better. She knows not to save the monster.</p><p>"How come Nightwing followed your call?"</p><p>Rose's open expression stutters, closing off. Boots scrape against wet cobblestone when Grayson stands up. Slade's tense shoulders forcefully draw down, the vigilante a prickling danger at his back, and his daughter pulls away, hands balling into fists over the dirty wet ground.</p><p>Silence reigns - and Slade's mood turns sour.</p><p>"Adeline planned this for quite some time," Nightwing speaks up behind him, steps heavy with purpose, voice calm in its self-righteousness. The black and blue shadow appears in the periphery of his vision, circles him. "She told Joey and Rose. <em>They were glad, Slade.</em>"</p><p>Slade meets the white lenses with a just as slicing glare. He isn't surprised. Not hurt. He knows even if he doesn't admit it. The joy of being human.</p><p>"Of course, Rose had doubts." It's said with an inclination Slade can barely ignore. <em>Of course, she had doubts because she isn't like you.</em></p><p>"Why him?" he asks his daughter once more. Their contact with other Gotham crime fighters has been growing lately. Nightwing towering over him is different than hearing Robin mouth off, different to a looming Batman.</p><p>"Wintergreen doesn't think saving you is his business. You know his stance," Rose replies, her lips a straight line. She called him. Slade can guess how that went. Going between Adeline and him has never been on Billy's agenda. On no one’s but Rose's anyway.</p><p>"That's no explanation," Slade reminds sharply, doesn't repeat the question.</p><p>Rose steals a glance at Grayson. The vigilante tilts his head, chin raised. Anger burns in Slade's chest.</p><p>"Batman and Robin, you goaded to us," Rose speaks hushed, gazing up at him, "to fight and deceive. Nightwing, you brought to me, so I could learn to survive."</p><p>And will that decision ever not come back to haunt him? He really doesn't know. At least Grayson isn't fond of the situation either.</p><p>Before they can clash, Nightwing excuses himself with a harsh whisper. The pinprick pain underneath Slade's skin disappears, his shoulders relaxing the moment the hero is truly gone.</p><p>Rose awkwardly tries to help him up, but Slade doesn't take her outstretched hand. She must have known he never would. Still, the long white hair falls into her face in disarray, hiding her grimace.</p><p>"I have a safe house nearby," she states, expression gnarled, and he nods, accompanying her.</p><p>They end up eating takeout he would never get for himself, Rose trying to say words even she, in all her vibrance, has trouble speaking. When she bids him Goodnight, her lone eye glimmers sharply in the dark.</p><p>"You know, <em>Dad</em>, I already regret saving you."</p><p>The statement was bound to come. Rose's tongue is just as sharp as his, as Adeline's, but words have failed to hurt him since he was a child, so Slade finishes his dessert alone but maybe - just maybe - the food doesn't taste quite as good as before.</p><p>That night he dreams of Adeline, their first time after a mission, one of many heated clashes associated with loss and anger; dreams of her face when she killed him, then and now. She aged well, better than him.</p><p>Slade doesn't know if he aged at all.</p><p>Sometimes, he wonders if his life is a dream. Maybe he is still hooked to machines, the shot through his head worse. The serum an illusion. Not even Billy would wait for him.</p><p>As if to comfort him, as if to help him bury those thoughts, Nightwing's hands are back on his shoulders. This time Slade reaches out like he wanted to at the docks. His hands curl in wet locks. He has seen the black tresses soaked in half-dried blood and mud, has felt them between his fingers just to slam Nightwing down again.</p><p>This is better.</p><p>White teeth flash when he pulls Nightwing down ruthlessly. Their teeth click, but his lips are soft, softer than Slade expected, but they feel right, familiar. <em>A breath of life.</em></p><p>Slade bites into the plump lower lip, has always liked getting under the young vigilante's skin. It distracts from the uncomfortable warmth in his chest.</p><p>The dream curls in the back of his mind, simmers into subconsciousness. Seconds after he wakes, Slade curls his weakness up into a ball and forgets.</p><p>The second attempt on his life never happened. Rose tries to get away from his influence. Adeline bickers about his vices. Billy looks wearier by the day. Joey watches him, as sharp-eyed and unforgiving as Grant once was. Nightwing is a non-entity among other more annoying Gotham vigilantes until he is not.</p><p>The contract is easy. Get in, get out. Kill one. Batman is too late, Robin too angry to stop him.</p><p>Nightwing's fluid grace is like a shock to his system, challenges his precise control like it has always done. They get caught in an old dance of give and take, teetering on the edge of... something.</p><p>When Nightwing stops, so does Deathstroke.</p><p>Thing is, he doesn't have to. Nightwing is out of breath, lips parted. A thin cut bleeds at his shoulder, parting the blue Kevlar. In return, Slade is the picture of nonchalance.</p><p>"What happened?" Grayson asks.</p><p>Concern from heroes makes him laugh, but Nightwing is different. They have known each other for far too long. Nightwing is caught up in Wilson family business like no other.</p><p>The scrutiny the vigilante subjects him to, makes him feel like an unruly Titan under the hero's tutelage, and the mere thought makes Slade scoff.</p><p>Grayson eases out of his fighting stance carefully, but one hand stays close to the Escrima still strapped against his thigh, and the watchful gaze never leaves his face.</p><p>
  <em>Smart boy.</em>
</p><p>"We couldn't call this a fight even if we wanted to, Slade."</p><p>"Do you really want one?"</p><p>A snort echoes across the roof, and Slade knows his answer, knew it even before he asked.</p><p>"Of cor<em>gh--</em>," Grayson gasps, bodily thrown against the wall with an arm pressed against his jugular. It cuts off his breath, bruises his throat as lips part desperately.</p><p>
  <em>And Slade wants.</em>
</p><p>A jolt rips through his body, numbs his side. Electricity from the blue sizzling, high voltage ends of the Escrima. Grayson kicks him in the chest, hard enough to rattle him. His arm budges. A grin full of teeth flashes at him - and Slade remembers his dream.</p><p>(<em>Dreams</em> if he is honest with himself.)</p><p>The side of Grayson's other foot hits his temple, and Grayson winds out of his grip, rolls. With pleasure, Slade tears him down the second he stands.</p><p>They fight rough and dirty until Grayson's head hangs over the edge of the roof, harsh stone cutting into his neck, their bodies pressed together. Thunder rolls over them, clouds swirling. Grayson strains underneath him, tries to find an opening, any sort of leverage.</p><p>In warning, Slade curls a hand into the dark hair and yanks. It makes Grayson gasp, and he holds him there, keeps the expanse of the vulnerable throat exposed, lets the rough stone edge dig cruelly into the just as unprotected neck.</p><p>"You use conditioner, kid?" he asks absentmindedly, as if he isn’t aware of every hesitant breath Nightwing takes, as if their entanglement isn’t making him hard. He wonders where the other two crime fighters are, wonders how reckless the little Al-Ghul would be if he saw them like this.</p><p>"You don't?" Grayson questions, voice strained from the angle Slade has forced him into. It sounds good. He could get used to it. "Funny, I thought I got that from you."</p><p>The smile on his lips is wide, an act of unreserved amusement Slade would believe if not for the way the powerful muscles strain and bulk beneath his weight, Grayson never ceasing to fight against his hold despite its pointlessness.</p><p>A drop of water glides down Grayson's cheek, another falls on the dark slope of the mask in between his eyes to contour his nose.</p><p>Slade craves to torch them off.</p><p>"So, what's your plan for the night, Slade? Keep me here until the sun shines again? Cause, I dunno if you've forgotten, but this is Gotham. If it starts raining, it lasts, and we have rainy season right now, ten hours a day, two liters per min-"</p><p>Slade rips his head back further by his hair, flattens the black-clad leg back to the roof with his weight before it can be used to push him off. Another gasp. The blue slashed chest rises off the roof in an attempt to alleviate the strain.</p><p>Nightwing uses words as weapons, curls them around enemies and friends alike until they forget that the fight is serious. Nightwing shifts with his words, moves like a snake more than a bird. Nightwing makes everyone watch, makes them want to take a step back.</p><p>Slade nearly did.</p><p>"Oh, come o--" Slade doesn't let him finish his pretend whining, presses his mouth against the lips that have haunted his dreams. It's impossible to feel Grayson through the Kevlar, but it's the thought that counts.</p><p>Nightwing stares up at him, breath hitching, whole body tensing. Slade leans back in, grip steady on the side of his neck. Nightwing struggles to get away. His masked lips brush against the vigilante's ear instead, <em>and Nightwing shudders</em>. Suddenly so desirably pliant beneath his grasp, Slade nearly can’t bring himself to let go.</p><p>"Thanks for the CPR, kid."</p><hr/><p>
  <em>Querido.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Querido.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Dick blinks his eyes open. His mouth feels dry despite the wetness all around him. Slowly, he presses up into a sitting position. His skin burns. The rain has only gotten stronger, settling into his hair, and streaming down his suit. There is no pain radiating from his face, no blood being washed away. Slade must have pushed a pressure point.</p><p>Dick gathers a heavy breath, and-- and he doesn't know why it's not enough. The Kevlar against his lips felt rough and harsh, so unlike sticky soft lips but-- but this right here. Flat rooftops during rain still make his heart flutter. Yet, he hates even more that he still can't bring himself to move, to do anything but curl into himself and shudder. (<em>Quiet.</em>) He nearly wishes Slade had violently knocked him out.</p><p>At least he didn't dream, didn't dream of her cold spidery fingers pushing beneath his costume, exposing him to the heavy rain and the harsh wind to take him for her own, take him as a present for killing a man.</p><p>Just thinking about it nearly makes him retch, and it feels like he is with rain dropping from his lips, fingers rasping against the roof as if he is still caught inside his own skin, only watching her and feeling her through a veil.</p><p>Painfully slowly, Dick forces his shaking legs to carry his weight. The wind whips the sharp rain down on him, claws at his cheeks. A ghastly bolt of lightning illuminates the sky, and the thunder growls: <em>Mi Amor. Mi Amor. Mi Amor.</em></p><hr/><p><em>Be done with it</em>, Slade tells himself. His curiosity should be satisfied, but were it Nightwing's lips before, it's now his whole body winding this way and that in his dreams.</p><p>It's ironic that the Titans have been a stain on his resume for years, but Grayson only begins to stain every bed Slade rests on now. Cravings as annoying as the young man himself.</p><p>His sudden need is an itch Slade can't reach, no matter how hard he tries. Look-alikes are just that. They don't catch Nightwing's essence. The young hero has always been special. Soft and sharp in one perfect package of athletic gold.</p><p>Breaking into Grayson's apartment isn't his usual modus operandi - well, actually it is if he continues thinking about it. Or at least it was.</p><p>His fingers trail over the lightly dusted kitchen counter, then stop to consider the coffee machine. He fills the tank up with water and settles for the arabica coffee powder standing beside it instead of going through the cupboards lining the wall.</p><p>It's less out of politeness and more because he doesn't know what he expects from his visit.</p><p>The storm raging outside makes the rain pipe rattle as the small apartment is filled with the sounds and the smell of brewing coffee, seeming like the calm place in the eye of the storm. Slade finds himself glancing around, wonders if another bird or bat is already watching him, too nosy to respect Grayson's privacy.</p><p>A lightning strike crashes through the sky, thunder right behind. The storm must be raging right above the apartment complex. It illuminates Nightwing's form before the vigilante rolls in with a curse, soaked to the bones. The window is locked quickly before the wind can push it open again, and Grayson turns just for his body to lock up muscle by muscle, growing eerily still.</p><p>Slade catches the Escrima before it hits him between the eyes, accompanying air draft nearly forcing him to blink. The brewing stops. All he can hear is Grayson's ragged breathing and the muted sounds of the storm raging on outside.</p><p>"Slade." Nightwing's voice fills the room, any intonation missing, yet nonetheless intense.</p><p>Slade flicks the Escrima up, watches it rotate through the air before catching it again. The electric contacts rowed around the ending glow blue between his fingertips.</p><p>"Ever thought of a remote control that shocks them right out of your opponent’s hands?"</p><p>Grayson's body shifts more upright, nearly out of his fighting stance. Even the hand on his remaining Escrima flinches. His lips are parted, mouth not quite agape but close.</p><p>Incredulity looks good on him.</p><p>Slade puts the Escrima on the kitchen counter, picks up the fresh coffee instead. It tastes rich and earthy. Damn billionaire brat.</p><p>"I have," Grayson finally says as he turns the light on, mask coming off his eyes once he presumes the coast is clear. There is a tiredness to them Slade blames on the storm. Even Nightwing and Catwoman are going to slip on the roofs tonight. "What do you want?"</p><p>The large distance between them seems only amplified by the question.</p><p>"I'm visiting my savior."</p><p>Grayson looks unimpressed. Whatever offer he was willing to make when they clashed on that rooftop weeks ago clearly isn't on the table anymore. What a shame.</p><p>"I want to enjoy a tasty coffee in pleasant company while this horrid weather rages on?"</p><p>Grayson snorts, but he doesn't ask more questions, just shakes his head like a wet dog, still looking stupidly attractive.</p><p>"Right."</p><p>It sounds pained.</p><p>After a moment's hesitation, Grayson steps towards him. The sharp blue sizes him up. Grayson is still out of his range of grasp, and with a sidestep, Grayson is back to circling him, studying him, but the couch is placed too near. The distance lessens, and, between the two of them, Slade has always been the hunter not the hunted.</p><p>The Nightwing costume is still slick from the rain when Slade stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Grayson's eyes narrow further, snarled lips parting to speak with flashing teeth. Still, his anger crumbles away the second Slade brushes his thumb across the corner of the soft lips.</p><p>The slap against his hand stings. Despite the rage burning in the blue eyes, there is a deep-seated underlying fear in the half aborted backward move Grayson makes. It gives Slade enough pause to not push him further even though he wants to. Because Slade is more familiar with that reaction than anyone likes to think, not to mention for a reason no one ever takes the time to consider.</p><p>"Drink your coffee and go," Grayson growls, trying to walk past him without even attempting to fight, and Slade grasps his biceps instead, keeps him still. Blue eyes flicker down to his lips then back up again, still that mad expression on his face, but cracking the longer Slade keeps him in place without even trying.</p><p>They should be fighting by now. Keeping his apartment clean and unbroken has never stopped Grayson before. But... Grayson's heartbeat is galloping, the tension in his muscles high, his breath is harsh, and he is tilting away ever so slightly - <em>cowering</em>.</p><p>Even as Robin, Grayson never cowered in front of him. It’s a first. Slade finds, he doesn’t enjoy the sight at all.</p><p>He visited Lilian often. Often enough for Adeline to be jealous. Often enough for Rose to exist. Often enough, that he can admit that he truly loved her.</p><p>Some nights, she had looked at him just like that, but past that initial expression of fear, she had confined into him. Not everything - never that - but enough.</p><p>It shouldn't surprise him. People talk about Nightwing a lot. Heroes. Villains. Civilians. Who it is, doesn't make a huge difference at the end of the day. They all describe his ass in more detail than they should be able to, push a peck to lips or cheek when the hero is near, put their hands on his chest or hips or ass, imagine that the suit is only painted on, believe Nightwing looks good stained in black and blue. <em>Always.</em></p><p>Slade is one of them.</p><p>"Slade," Grayson says his name again, but it's not the same sure tone it always has been, something in the middle breaks. Slade lets go and pulls back before Grayson can tell him so.</p><p>An unsure frown appears on the vigilante's lips, shadows his eyes. Grayson steps back haltingly, then takes another step to finally turn away.</p><p>The bathroom door is already cracked open when Grayson stops again, hand curled tightly around the doorknob. "Go," Grayson repeats. <em>Just go! </em><em>សូម</em><em>, leave me alone.</em></p><p>Slade doesn't. It would be the right thing to do. The respectful way to handle this. His want has been snuffed out anyway. No matter how immoral some of his hook-up choices might be, he has never been interested in a truly unwilling partner, no matter how much Etienne might want to twist their night together.</p><p>Still, he stays, is a nice enough guest to fill a second cup of coffee.</p><p>Soon enough, Grayson steps out of his bathroom in fresh, dry, and comfy clothes. His hair a little drier than before, sticking up in all directions. His muscles hidden, his scars too, Grayson’s youth shines clearly through his eyes.  </p><p>He hears well even past the rain and thunder, knows that Grayson didn't shower, and if that isn't another red flag, Slade doesn't know what could be. Grayson's gaze finds his, and Slade gestures to the other side of the couch where he has placed the steaming mug of coffee.</p><p>Something half-crazed crosses his face. Slade doesn't know what probing at it would do. Break him or wake his rage enough for him to finally attack the dangerous enemy on his couch.</p><p>Slowly Grayson advances to settle down, not hiding that he is watching him at all. Blue thrilling into him. There is as much distance between them as there can be with both of them sitting on the ratty brown couch.</p><p>Maybe Grayson isn't such a billionaire brat after all. Maybe his taste in coffee is actually just good. What a concept.</p><p>Grayson takes a sip of the coffee after momentary hesitation. His eyes close with the second sip, then a breath escapes him that's too thin to be called a sigh. There is a shiver befalling him now and again that Slade didn’t notice before.</p><p>"Does anyone even know?"</p><p>Grayson snaps back up, eyes wide. He only fights his reaction down too late, eyes growing steely again, mouth forming a tight line.</p><p>"Know what?"</p><p>"That people touch you without your consent."</p><p>Grayson just stares and stares so long Slade fears his coffee might slip out of his hand if he keeps it up.</p><p>"People?" Grayson finally asks as if testing the word on his tongue, his stare going through Slade. Then he snorts, whatever gripped him passing. "You mean such as yourself?" Grayson laughs and, well, fair but also.</p><p>"There was a heavy layer of Kevlar between us. That doesn't count."</p><p>Grayson huffs again, a little desperate, a little bit broken, but he doesn't seem mad. The coffee is placed on the low desk in front of the couch, and Grayson pulls up his legs, chin cushioning on his knees as he tugs himself together.</p><p>"Why are you here?" The question is soft, amused, indulging, and yet helpless in a way Grayson usually isn’t.</p><p>"You asked what happened," Slade replies instead of admitting that he came in hopes of fucking him against the next best preferably hard surface, that he can't get the shape of his body and the feeling of his lips out of his head. It would be a better answer to Grayson's question, but it wouldn't quite be the truth. As much as he delights invoking fear into those haunting blue eyes, it’s not what he craves for now.</p><p>"I suppose," Grayson admits, watching him with a healthy dose of suspicion mixed so much with exasperation that Slade once more feels like a wayward Titan, or maybe one of the baby Bats.</p><p>Slade dips his head in acknowledgment, then sips on the slowly cooling coffee as he watches Grayson try to hide his tremble. Their full attention stays on each other. Grayson too used to silence as a weapon. It pulls the truth right from his lips.</p><p>"I want to touch you."</p><p>Grayson stares at him, tension winding him out of the drawn-in position and back--<em>away</em>. A glimpse of his Escrima shows behind his thigh.</p><p>
  <em>Smart, smart, beautiful boy.</em>
</p><p>"You’re shaking, Grayson."</p><p>Grayson laughs, desperation trickling through the cracking mask. His heartbeat drowns out the harsh night rain.</p><p>"I'm not going to hurt you."</p><p>Grayson's grip around the Escrima tightens, disbelieve swimming in his wide eyes.</p><p>"I can see it's the rain and the cold, Grayson. I might have only one eye, but I'm not blind."</p><p>Grayson stares at the hand offered to him. His fingers uncurl from his Escrima, but he doesn't reach out.</p><p>"You're just going to hurt me." Thick and wet, the words tumble out of Grayson's mouth.</p><p>Slade guesses that assumption is fair too.</p><p>"I owe you, Grayson. You know that means something. I might have given my underappreciated thanks for the CPR, but that wasn't the only thing you did. Let me warm you up."</p><p>"No," Grayson says, biting his lip, and Slade doesn't truly want to, but he pulls his hand back, only to be stopped in mid-motion. Icy fingertips brush across his palm, hand placed atop his. <em>Christ</em>, <em>the kid really is freezing</em>. "You're right. I did a lot more."</p><p>The fingertips dig into his palm, blue gaze sure, chin tilted up. <em>Try your worst, </em>Grayson seems to say, <em>but you won't break me.</em></p><p>Even that gaze and that tilt, Slade is all too familiar with, and while he meets the challenge on rooftops with sadistic glee, he doesn't do so here in the vigilante's apartment on the ratty couch, the scent of coffee lingering in the air. </p><hr/><p>He has never told anyone.</p><p>It's not fair that Slade recognized what happened to him with just a glance. But fair or not, the rough large hand brushing through his hair grounds him in a way few things can.</p><p>"I'm sick of being a piece of meat," he confesses, lips half pressed against the strong chest. Their legs entangled. Slade’s free hand beside him. An offer, not a must.</p><p>It’s wrong. Slade has hurt him. He will do it again. Dick doesn’t know what he hopes to find in his embrace except another kind of doom.</p><p>But Slade isn't Tarantula. Slade won't tell him to stay quiet, that he will be safe. Isn't Mirage. Slade won’t wear another’s skin only to take what never ever belonged to him. Isn't even Liu. Dick won’t fall for a pretense of love. Slade will never use him as a pawn again.</p><p>And all Slade isn't, makes him ok even if not safe.</p>
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